


Beyond The Veil: A Spiritualist AU

by morwrach



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Falling In Love, Ficlet, Italian Cemetery Tourism, M/M, Past Percival Graves/Theseus Scamander, Poem excerpts, Skeptic!Percival Graves, Spiritualism, Spiritualist!Credence Barebone, death mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 08:09:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/pseuds/morwrach
Summary: Based on gothyringwald‘s prompt for the Gradence Trick or Treat challenge of 2017: “Victorian AU. Credence is a medium/spiritualist. Graves is a skeptic”I previously uploaded this to tumblr, but decided to upload it to A03 to keep all my fics in one place. :)





	Beyond The Veil: A Spiritualist AU

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gothyringwald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/gifts).



“My paths are in the fields I know and thine in undiscover'd lands”  
  
**November 1899.**  
  
From the very beginning it’s clear that Credence is a singular case. The young man is starkly different to all the spirit mediums Graves has exposed as frauds and thieves who manipulate the fragile desperation of the grief stricken.  
  
It’s an unassuming night and an unassuming setting – a frost touched night in November, the lamp-lit parlor of a wealthy host, the typical gaggle of society ladies and gentlemen that make up the circle. He expects the willowy girl who served the refreshments to take the chair. She seems the typical sort - dainty, bird-like, with large saucer eyes. It’s a fitting name too, Chastity, all holiness and light. The kind of name which pleases the hopeful bereaved.  
  
And yet, it’s the son who steps forward. He approaches the seat in a slow, resigned way, sits, folds his hands in his lap and begins. Credence slips into his medium trance without any theatricality – no puff of smoke or gibbering lip. One second he is lucid, the next suspended between conscious and subconscious states. His head tips loosely to the side, and a lock of his black hair falls gently across his forehead.  
  
“Credence?” asks Chastity firmly, “Are you ready to begin?”  
  
“Yes,” Credence replies in a low tone, “She is with me.”  
  
“Who is it that guides you?” asks one woman.  
  
“It is my little sister, Modesty” Credence offers in a soft voice.  
  
A little sister huffs Graves’ thoughts How perfectly chosen to play to human sensitivity. Yet despite his brain’s protestations, a tiny whisper of doubt whistles through his mind, for there’s an earnestness in Credence. His dark feline eyes are arresting when they alight on Graves’ own. There’s a searching curiosity in his gaze which seems to pierce both mind and soul.

  
* 

  
“Would breathing thro' his lips impart the life that almost dies in me?”  
  
**January 1900.**  
  
A horrible gurgling noise bubbles up from Credence’s throat. He chokes and splutters fitfully, and a dark lock of hair falls into his unseeing eyes. The other attendees gasp and titter. Graves feels Credence’s pain as a pang in his own chest.  
Credence shudders, his back knocking heavily against the chair over and over and over and over in a creaking, rapping harmony.  
  
Theseus’s deep voice booms suddenly from Credence’s slack open mouth.  
“Percival.”  
  
Graves feels sick with shock, and shot through with yearning longing. His dear Theseus, that dear voice, last heard more than a decade ago in an army medical tent – weak and failing is now clear as a bell. Distinct. True.  
  
“Percival.”  
  
“Thes,” he murmurs softly, half to himself.  
  
“Percival,” Theseus’s voice intones, spewing forth from Credence. “Let me go.”  
  
“Theseus, please” Graves hears his own voice say, pleading unashamedly, reaching for Credence’s hand where it rests, trembling against the table.  
  
“Let. Me. Go.” Theseus half-shouts. The table rocks violently on its feet, sending a glass of water flying.  
  
Credence’s body convulses in the chair, cold sweat staining his starched white shirt under his arms. He wheezes hollowly, a horrible dry rasp; and collapses, a mouthpiece discarded.

  
  
* 

“Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt.”

 **May 1900.**  
  
  
Italian sun plays across Credence’s face, and his skin is warm when Graves presses a kiss to his temple. Credence sighs a little then, expression tenderly sad as he looks at the rows of marble tombs of the Cimitero degli Inglesi.  
  
“I never asked them to come to me,” Credence says guiltily out of nowhere. “I never wanted it.”  
  
“- and yet, you did not shut them out.” Graves replies.  
  
They walk in silence through the graveyard, clusters of purple spring flowers around their ankles. Credence trails his fingertips over crucifixes and urns and angels.  
  
“I have been thinking lately,” Credence confesses, “that my Summerland will be Florence, with you by my side.”  
  
“Will you be able to find me?” Graves finds himself asking, “when we but spirits? I will surely die before you do, my darling.”  
  
“Yes,” Credence answers with absolute certainty, “my soul will recognise its beloved, even beyond the veil.” 

**Author's Note:**

> The poetry at the beginning of each section is by Alfred Lord Tennyson, and is from my favourite of his poems, that outpouring of grief, love, and same-sex desire, In Memoriam (1849)
> 
> You can find the original post, with the accompanying moodboard [here](http://nettlekettle.tumblr.com/post/167507593163/beyond-the-veil-a-spiritualist-au-based) @my tumblr, nettlekettle.tumblr.com :)


End file.
